


Hardest of Hearts

by Lumeha



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeha/pseuds/Lumeha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flash fiction collection - Opposite is the word to describe them in appearance, but there is something more about their relation. They are storms under skin and thoughts in the night, vulnerability hidden inside their flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Science doesn't need consent, but she's different

When he asked her if he could study her, study the way her body reacted to the hollowification, she backed off with a hiss, her eyes almost turning black. He never asked again. He doesn't even know why he asked. He never did it before, like Mayuri told him. "Science doesn't need consent, Akon." But she's not just a study subject : Hiyori is multitude, an image from the past as well as a picture of a sliced body, of dried blood splattered on her spliced torso, of rage coloring her eyes, of will and power and sparks of anger under her skin. The taste of harshness and steel and a touch of strange sweeetness, the smell of warmth and tobacco. Vulnerability buried under layers of hate and violence, with a smile that's almost not a smile.  He's not sure if she's conscious of it or if she lets him see as a mark of trust.

It took time to realize the reason why she never talks about the hollowification. She never tries to explain herself, grumbles when he evokes the subject. There is too much to see, to much to observe, and he don't catch it at first. He's impressed by the strength of her body, stick-thin arms and legs hiding the hardness of her muscles and her bones. He don't understand how he could have missed the constellations of small scars on her arms, small white dots, negative pictures of her freckle-covered shoulders and back. The way her fingers curl around her skin when she sees herself naked. The way Kisuke speaks of reports and experimentations and how he's sorry, so sorry, in a soft, saddened voice, but he can't find anything, even now, there is no solution. How her mouth curls, showing her teeth, when someone talk about the hollowification, but never when they talk about the Hollow living inside her. Small details he catches with time when he talks with her over the phone, over the computer, or when he can see her.

She's not a subject of experimentation, but a living proof of an aspect of science he doesn't want to think about because he's used to it, in its abnormalcy. Unwilling subjects, screams of pain and will to live are shadows that never had substance until now. Deep in the night, his fingers moving across her shoulder and arm, a part of him wants to know and dissect and study the flesh, the changes, the hardship imprinted on the body. Cold, reassuring facts he can write on a report, disembodied sentences avoiding the truth. But Hiyori moves under his touch, open an eye and mutter something about a "stupid, stupid scientist not sleeping when he should" in her coarse voice. She rolls over, places her head on his chest and closes her eyes again. But she doesn't drift into sleep. She stays silent, her nose against his skin, and he can feel the subtle movements of her muscles under his fingertips. Warmth, comfortable warmth of a body, and everything is reality again. "Science doesn't need consent, Akon", but science never dealt with living bodies, only disincarnated subjects with no names and no realities, muffled screams easily ignored. She's something else entirely, a being in her own rights.

"Stop thinking. Sleep. Fucking empty headed scientist..." Her voice trails off into a mumble, but she has that half-smile of contentment on her lips. Maybe he should stop thinking. The shades of his own mind are an interesting subject. The hesitations, the resistances, the new thoughts emerging and the irationality of his feelings, their interactions with his knowledge and education...

She wraps her arms around him, frail and strong and contradictory, pulls herself closer, and his thoughts stop in their own tracks.


	2. Chapter 2

Hate and anger are reassuring. It's fucked up, when she thinks about it, but it's still true. Hate and anger and rage, boiling blood under her skin, haemoglobine taste in her nose and on her tongue, nails sharpened like claws to dig deep in flesh, are layers and layers of armour to protect herself. The calm, soft whisper in her mind can be drown in those feelings bursting and burning and destroying everything around her.

You are weak, weak, _weak_.

It's an endless litany, with little variation to its core. It's not the soft and raspy, echoing voice of her Hollow, with her mad smile, as wide as Shinji's when he's trying to joke about his pain. It's not the spark in the black eyes, amused, it's not the cackling laugh in the face of that painful reality. She points and laughs and whispers about blood and anger and monsters and vulnerability. Twists her neck into a surreal angle, gets close to her, talks to her in a hushed tone, savouring the taste on her tongue. The Hollow doesn't fight, doesn't scream, calm and soft in her darkness, but she rips off her host and shows her her guts and raw emotions. She pushes Hiyori in front of what she doesn't want to see.

Pushes her in front of her eternal insecurities, deeps gaps carved into herself, filled with memories she doesn't want to think about. It's her own voice killing her, her own voice drowned in burning feelings, in hot-white anger. Everything to forget. Everything to shut her own mind.

Useless. Unworthy. Monster, creature that should not exist. Small thing perpetually angry against worlds she hates.

Abandonned. Used. Forgotten.

Weak.

She feels Akon's fingers at the base of her skull and her whole body tense. The smell of tobacco is overpowering, invading her nostrils. A touch of coffee. Blood. Always blood, somewhere, the sharp, ferrous scent perpetually presents. He doesn't say a thing, stays silent, doesn't even look at her, but slowly, she relaxes under the cool touch. There is a purr, rough and low, at the fringe of her mind, black eyes half open, content and too large smile on darkened lips. Quiet.

When he talks, she almost doesn't listen, fascinated by the lulling sensation, by the reaction of her Hollow. His voice is rasp after years of smoking, slow, as if he knows that she's half-listening (he knows, of course he knows, he learned the way her body and face express more than anger). She forces herself to pay attention, raises her eyes to see him leaning over her, his hand still on the back of her neck, and he stops for a second.

"You are stronger than what I remembered. Not that you were weak."

A laugh dies on her lips, replaced by a vaguely amused grumble. Is she that easy to read ? It would be more annoying coming from Kisuke or Shinji. But from Akon, it's somehow reassuring.

"Still alive after being cut in two. After being hollowified. After living here for a century. It's fascinating. Don't look at me like that, I'm not writing a report, just stating facts.  
\- Scientists never "just" state facts.  
\- Simple facts. You are stronger than I remembered because of those simple facts. I'm not using you as a test subject. If I tried, I don't doubt that you would reduce me to the state of a bloody pulp on the wall."

A ghost of a smile appears on his face when she answers with a grunt, lowering her eyes, and he kisses her bitten lips lightly. She's vulnerable and raw, feelings contained in a cloth of skin and flesh, desire to live and willpower and boiling blood. A survivor. Someone with strength. And when he's putting her own life before her eyes, she finds it hard to deny it.


	3. A fire in her eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt : "Something’s wrong with this shit system. We are not soulmates!" - Soulmate AU

“No way. No. No way. That’s not. Not. Just no. Fuck…”

“This, that, and everything, yes I know, vice-captain”, cuts in Akon.

A slight side-step to avoid the shoe being thrown in his face, half an eye-roll, and the sleeves are back down his arms. She looks at him with a growl, fangs showing, and picks up what’s left of the glassware she dropped on the floor. Another day like all the others in the Twelfth for them.

On her wrist, he can see the roots of a plant and the drawing of her muscles.

But he hears the grumbling, the harsh words that she doesn’t even try to hide behind sugar and spice. He feels the anger and sees the light in her eyes, and he’s sure that there is something wrong. But glimpses of flesh and bones and flowers reminds him that she’s supposed to be the soul he is linked to.

“Supposed to” is the word, in his mind, and he can see in the fire of her eyes that she probably thinks the same.

–

He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about it too much. The mark is huge and devouring ; delicate flowers of the bindweed and bones scattered on the skin, covering precise drawings of the muscles of his arm. Anyone would have seen a story in the fangs and skulls and bones and flesh left in the flowers. He doesn’t. Sometimes he hears comments about it. How sad he must have been once, for having so much death, rot and weeds on his skin. How tragic they must have been. One look and the comments die on their lips, but the sorry smiles never do.

The mark is blood and skin and nowhere as important as the work he’s doing. A presence that was there and then disappeared one day. Inconsistent and ephemeral. It’s simply a permanent reminder of someone not here. Nothing more, nothing less.

There is always something greater, something more important to think about than a girl with eyes of fire who disappeared one night, dead for all he knows. Changed into a Hollow by the man who was her superior. The story doesn’t make sense, but it’s the official one (it doesn’t matter that “official” often means “false” - it’s the official one, and sometimes it is the only reason to believe that’s she’s dead and he shouldn’t think about her).

It doesn’t matter how perfect the system is supposed to be, he doesn’t want to think about her because of what is on their skin, because of that supposed link soulmates share. Perfection doesn’t exist.

They just happen to be one of the errors.

–

When he sees her again, she is almost dying, cut in half but still somehow full of life. Almost smiling, splattered with blood, fighting for her life with a rage he knows almost well. He has to leave to keep an eye on the team he is supervising, and she doesn’t speak to him.

–

The mark is hidden among the ink that covers her body. He can see the scar running on her torso, cutting into the ominous deity painted on her back. She said she didn’t want to get it redone. Because, somehow, what should have killed her didn’t, and even if demons don’t exist, there is still evil to purify, even if evil no longer means black eyes and white faces, even if evil is so much harder to understand and know after all these years.

The fire burns brightly in her eyes.

Maybe they are an error, but it doesn’t matter anymore.


End file.
